"Oh, yeah, sure, in a sec. Just wanted to see how my favourite.... guy? Gal? Galliforme? Was doing?"

Brasillarch dispatched him with a spur through the face, kicking at the crate underfoot a bit until it was clean enough for his sensibilities to permit he resume prim vigil over the quarry. The cockerel flexed a wingtip. A sturdy chain with a police dog straining on the end of it, that would be nice in a situation like this. Not the good old days, per se - even he could acknowledge that was tasteless - but comforting. The flock seemed to share his energy, judging from the (so little restraint, detestable) hollers and taunts a handful others issued from their perches.

They'd chased the smoke, at some length, through the cargo hold, finally squaring up the mannequin in an alcove between crates to drive him into. Wait for him to wander into. Whatever. Brasillarch kept militarily ruthless pursuit, following the lead of the two falcons, keeping the air clear and the wings strong on Parliament's eyes. There were still three, four, further afield, their work deemed essential enough to warrant the diversion; Brasillarch didn't need the specifics.

The hierofalcons (a Saker and the gyrfalcon who'd first laid claws on Cthaasa) landed on the two crates flanking the exit, one peering down into the alcove and the other watching the way they'd come, poised to pursue if Viscount tried running again.

The mannequin, sitting nonchalant on a box of tinned beans, uncrossed its arms, almost toppled over, sat up, stood up, then jerkily patted its left side down a bit. Tourmaline Pratts appeared on the Mannequin's shoulder, raising a wing in a "please hold" gesture to a confused and annoyed Viscount.

"Ah, here we are..."

Pratts pulled two coins from a pocket, fumbling and flapping about a little as pained squawks rang from the ceiling, where the ex-junta junglefowl was clearing out the nosebleed (beakbleed?) seats. The starling hopped off Parliament, then bounded to where you might tentatively put Viscount's metaphorical feet, laying the coins down before -poof!- vanishing. Somebird up on top of the shipping containers nudged a naked bulb, every other swing of it casting the currency in just enough light to put a glint on the curves of the inscribed numerals.

"Cellular, Modular, Interactiveodular," warblaughed a chiffchaff, before Brasillarch kicked her head in.

Viscount seethed even as he snatched up the coins, knowing for sure the birds were toying with him. One coin, as he'd suspected, was his; the other bore Saturday's rictus and a name he could've cared less about. He turned each of them over a couple times between his smoky claws, eventually glancing forward to yet another bird. It looked like any old nondescript sparrow-sized thing, barring the misting of red on its face and chest like some we're-down-to-the-last-victim schlock-horror cannibal villain. Viscount raised himself to full smoky height, looming over the tiny house finch.

"You call this blackmail?"

The house finch shrugged. "Were nae briefed by ther Interior on what specific they may've meant with that'n ye. All the Consul'ere's ken of ye's the sparse snippets've ol' A-Very Aspirant thought fit ter dole us-"

"A very aspirant what?" sighed Viscount.

"nowt but a bird joke. And to the quick," the finch rolled its shoulders, "a little one Interior had he ken more what all we us pages got, t'the dawn of all this sorrow." There was a vague quality to its drawl, anyone but the Viscount might've noticed it was calming, placating, even.

"Oh?"

"Called you Capnostic."

"Oh." Oh. He glanced about the nook, counting the vague avian shapes perched up in the dark near the cargo hold ceiling. One of them squawked something unprintable; the gyrfalcon laughed a delicate trill that made you feel like a mouse just hearing it.

"That man, what he were, didnae want to share the truth of ye. Righteous types in there-" he jerked his head back toward the mannequin "- feared ye. A beast partakin' of memories? Kah, memories is all we be, so it be fortunate we've proffer in great supply." The finch took a few hops forward, which was really more an inconvenience for Viscount having to stare down instead of ahead. "We hear ye be a discerning kind of monster, no glutton, very specific tastes ye've got. If ye can divulge what matter of the mind ye hunger for, Parliament here'd be welcoming."

It was tempting. There were easily hundreds, perhaps thousands of souls trapped in the mannequin, a self-sustaining mesh of reminders and recollections. They knew what Viscount was; must have figured he only ate a specific subset of memories. Were this the Controller's machinations, he'd jump on the chance to find out more from the jailbirds, but the smoke monster couldn't help but feel he was being sized up.

"The man of those coins," interrupted the finch, gesturing to where they whirled about in Viscount's midsection. "He said ye ate memories, but not which. Called ye paranoid too, 'bove all else he could've appellated."

"He called you lot disorganised," retorted Viscount, before realising that, yeah, he had called them disorganised. "Barely noticed this idiot had gotten himself killed, either."

"Ah'm... nae sure, meself. Were nae briefed on it before talking to ye."

So this wooden doll had plots of its own; sent a lackey out to speak to him. "And why did you lot choose to talk to me?"

"Kah, that one they drilled in me. We seek mutual benefit. Coalition, if a loose one. We ken there's wee reason to trust us or accept what we offer ye, but 'tis as ye said. Th' warlock, man, whatever he be, he's lit strange in what he sees or won't." The finch glanced toward the ceiling. "Our 'vigilante', to quote the introduction. Same blindnesses. Same sights."

Viscount's mind raced. How much did they know? Were they somehow the Apprentice's plant? Or maybe, had that greenhorn grabbed something without even knowing the full of its abilities? Best wait for this rabble to either tip its hand, or not, which would be conspicuous incongruous in its own way.

They already knew one thing he didn’t want spread, and considering he’d gone a whole round without his coin no trouble, their literal token of goodwill didn’t amount to much either…

And on the second day, wizardkind atoned for the separation of Heaven the Architects (closer though their self-designation may have been to Purgatory) from the Hell on liminal Earth and its bastard throne (where she-Satan coiled secretarial). For the most part, because Kisa Matila missed talking to the AI, who she figured was a better witch than anypasserine up in the tower. Every devil’s handmaiden needs a coven, don’tcha reckon, chicken?

Ms. Archer, frankly, was pissed. The wizard contingent going straight to her for matters of state just didn’t jive with her delusions that her computationally capacious omniscience wasn’t a glaringly obvious power grab. Kisa was there to smooth over whatever misunderstandings her silver-neckbearded cohort caused, and after several hours of being mocked for not understanding basic digital data structuring, they had a plan shipped out to the Interior and pushed through with a comparative minimum of fuss.

And on the third day, things went all right. For a little while, at least.

The cuckolders and the corporate brood parasites, the Parliamentarians so cosmically negligible they could barely dream of taking over the world, much less destroying its very firmament. They shuffled polite and regimental out of the rabble, looking for a long-lost kind of normalcy at a conceptual/metaphysical desk job. Push papers. Dig up worms. Managerials like Bauer prowled the urbane undergrowth, tugging at blue collars, maintaining disquieting calm.

And, come the end of the shift (time as familiar(and empty!) an abstraction as employment, clung to by the swills and shills of the Ditch), these regular asshole joes and daws would gather at their local watering hole. Not that it had ever been in the official municipal plans for 8th, but these things have a way of working themselves out. “Wet Willie’s” was the name of the establishment; Guillerma the long-tailed duck brooking just the right amount of bullshit from her patrons. Word was this was some private feud between her and a mister Mixatonic, though you’d be wished luck trying to eke that off her brick wall of a personality.

“And so it goes,” drawled a self-made-man now waterfowl, looking down his bill at anyone who’d bother to make eye contact at him, “back when she didn’t have a beak sticking out of it, girl had a face on her to match!” A smatter of laughter, a crowned pigeon stumble-crashing into the space with no respect for architecture. (If you squinted, you might’ve seen more “gloomy corners” than you could count for each of the assorted anti-socialites).

“No no no no no!” bellowed Guillerma in greeting, poking more than a few eyes out as she sashayed around complaining bargoers. The pigeon, (Goodie “Goodbye” Blue) easily twice her size but not immune to her, uh, “charms”, was appreciably taken aback.

“We have a door,” she hissonked. “Is not Dross, cloudhead.”

“Um, yessee, yes, ma’am, ma’am? Ma’am. I’m from the Interior-”

“I spit on your Interior!” wailed Guillerma, collapsing dramatically into the conveniently-positioned breast of an auk. She affixed Goodie with a glare all the while. “What business of theirs in my store? Is reputable. All will agree, even the plants like Mr. Faith.”

The sebright (Monty Faith, cock of mystery) saluted the pigeon from across the room, clacking his beak in time to make it sound like a finger snap. A crowd was starting to gather, eyeing up the kori bustard affectionately (“affectionately”) known as Planks. Planks could be trusted to start a good fight. Goodie Blue glared at Monty in some futile attempt to seek support, his lacy crown of feathers wobbling dangerously.

“Tha’s flown the coop!” cackled the Citrine fellorikeet beside him. The two high-fived; Goodie cast a nervous glance around. Most of the crowd had already stopped paying him attention, except for a few bored shit-stirrers jabbing Planks in the pinions and snickering. Goodie forgot in the moment that there was only correlation without a cause, no real commonality or kinship in this white-collar bolthole - that he gazed across a loose and shallow aggregate of everything and -body wrong with corporate society. He wished in that instant he’d sought employment down (Over? In? the only real directions in Parliament were down or out, let’s be honest) here, instead of the Interior’s deceptively smoochable ass.

“Ok, fine- fine, listen up, you lot-”

“Shutta stutter up!” suggested the Citrine.

“The Interior,” the pigeon bellowed directly into the lorikeet’s face, “wishes to report our successful preliminary alliances with the Viscount and Cepra Samedi.” He stared about the bar, chest feathers puffed with indignation.

The lull was broken with a “Yeah, so?” Someone guffawed; everyone else started laughing or arguing about something completely unrelated. Only Monty Faith heard the pigeon’s half-hearted request (spoken as it was more to the way out of the bar rather than anyone in particular) for interested parties to consult their nearest screenings, and he stood up and serenaded:

“Gooooodbye, Goodbye Blue! I’ll see you at the Ditchdigger’s meeting, yeah hun?”

“Be auto-beccino’s meeting if you don’t warn again about errand boyds,” scolded Guillerma, resting her head from behind on the bantam’s. Monty would’ve kissed her, if she wouldn’t have come down on him like a stack of bricks for trying it.